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Chapter Text

The current of sleep was pulling him down. Thorin fought to reach the surface, despite the stillness below promising darkness and silence and no questions to answer. It was the light he was reaching for: shades of green, a half-remembered smile and a familiar voice with a soft western lilt. He could almost make out the words it was saying. If only he could reach a little further –

Downwards he drifted again, gently floating back into darkness.

The memories stayed behind, out of his reach.

Bilbo's roses were almost in bloom, and he had still not received any letters from Erebor. Not since the first snow. It had never taken this long for the letters to resume after the winter, not even when he had just returned to the Shire and the dwarrow had had their hands full rebuilding their kingdom.

That had been almost six years ago, he reminded himself.

It would not be surprising if the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, busy dwarrow as they were, had forgotten about an unremarkable hobbit living in the middle of nowhere half a world away. Only Balin's last letter, arriving on the same wings as the storm that brought the first snow, had been full of chatty news from under the mountain, just like all the other letters Bilbo had received from him over the years.

Others wrote more rarely – Thorin only twice a year, regular as clockwork, and Bilbo treasured every letter – but every single member of the company maintained some sort of correspondence with him, even if Bifur's contribution was limited to scrawling his maker's mark at the bottom of Bofur's short missives.

For them all to stop communicating with him so abruptly – either Bilbo had offended them, or something was amiss.

Bilbo had ample evidence that it was hard to insult dwarves, at least in the ways hobbits would take offence, but he was aware of his vast ignorance of their ways. He had left Erebor soon after the battle (and oh, how it hurt still that they hadn't even asked him to stay. Thorin had offered abject apologies for his behaviour when under the goldsickness, with a sadness in his eyes not even victory and the survival of the whole company could shift, but he had not as much as hinted that perhaps Bilbo might stay a little longer), but it had already become apparent that events under the mountain were ruled by customs foreign to Bilbo.

Perhaps he had crossed a line he hadn't even known was there, and been ostracised for good this time – but Bilbo did not even bother to follow the thought to its conclusion.

His friendship with the dwarrow had weathered him stealing the Arkenstone and the distance between Hobbiton and Erebor; surely nothing he could put in a letter could be worse than that.

Something had to be wrong, then.

It would have come as a relief, if he hadn't started to worry as soon as he thought of what could possibly have befallen a whole kingdom. Surely, it couldn't be another dragon?

After brewing a pot of tea to settle his nerves, taken with the scones he baked yesterday on the side, Bilbo sat down to consider his options.

“You look restless, Mister Bilbo.”

Not for the first time, Bilbo decided Holman Gamgee was much more perceptive than he was given credit for in Hobbiton.

“I'm waiting for some letters, and then – I may be going on a journey.”

“Is that so,” was all Holman said; Bilbo mustn't have been as discreet about gathering supplies as he had thought.

“I would be grateful if you would be able to keep an eye on Bag End while I'm away. If it comes to that,” Bilbo added hurriedly. “In any event, I've left detailed instructions with my solicitors. Just in case.”

Holman nodded, chewing his pipe, which reminded Bilbo he had better purchase some more pipe-weed. No harm stocking up, and it had been a decent harvest last year.

If he were thinking of a long-cherished ambition to share some of the Shire's finest Leaf with Thorin Oakenshield, no one would be able to tell.

Two columns of smoke rising towards a cloudy sky, framed by faraway mountains.

Thorin remembered feeling content.

Happy, almost.

It had been at Beorn's, he recalled suddenly, but just as soon as the name occurred to him he succumbed to sleep again.

“We could escort you to the dwarven settlement in the Blue Mountains if you wish – it is much nearer than the Kingdom of Erebor, even though it is not as large.” The tallest Ranger looked at him earnestly.

“I’m afraid it has got to be Erebor, not the Blue Mountains. It is not a trip for leisure, so to speak” Bilbo explained. He had a nagging feeling that he was needed in Erebor, that this was important.

The two Rangers exchanged a look he had no difficulty interpreting.

“I do know exactly what I am asking: unlike most of my fellow hobbits I have in fact left the Shire before. I’m sure you get any number of curious Tooks (they would be Tooks, even though I’m sure that means nothing to you) wanting to see a real live dwarf, and that sort of thing. I quite understand how it comes across, but I can assure you I am already a friend of the Dwarrow of Erebor, and it is them I need to see.”

“Forgive us,” one of the Rangers said with a little bow, which Bilbo returned – he had not expected such graceful manners. “We ought to have understood you know your own business –“

“I know my fellow Hobbits,” Bilbo said, “and I am the one who is asking for a favour. So no apologies are necessary.”

He was only now realising the extent of what he was asking. When he had wheedled the Rangers' location from Fortinbras, he had thought his cousin had been unnecessarily circumspect and unwilling to share information.

Now, faced with two warriors – he had learnt enough on his journey to recognize the way they moved and the look of their weapons – Bilbo suddenly understood a great deal more about how the Shire was kept peaceful, and who was doing the guarding. And here he was, asking them to shepherd a silly hobbit to Rivendell!

And yet – and yet, Bilbo may be silly and no sort of warrior at all, but this was important. Another thing he had learnt on his journey was the absolute necessity that all the Free Folk of Middle Earth stand together, or they would fall, against the sort of threat the Rangers were guarding the Shire from. Setting out on his own on the off-chance that the mighty dwarven kingdom of Erebor needed his help was probably the most foolish thing he ever had done, but he would rather be a fool than let Thorin and his friends down, or not come to their aid when they needed him.

So Bilbo squelched his Hobbitish instincts that were screaming that this was Too Much and An Imposition, and asked again: “Could you take me to Rivendell so I can make my way to Erebor? Please and thank you.”

The Rangers were good travel companions, if a little dour, and by now Bilbo was used to eating sparingly when on the move. They chose other paths than those he remembered from travelling with the dwarrow – or perhaps he did not remember them properly.

This was the third time he had travelled this way, and yet he had always been accompanied by those more knowledgeable and fearsome than himself and gladly let them lead the way. Perhaps he ought to make an effort to be less of a passenger this time. If he truly believed he could be of some assistance once he arrived in Erebor, he ought to be able to make his own way to Rivendell in the future.

He had chosen not to acknowledge the unbidden thought that Thorin was hardly likely to respect a fellow who couldn't travel outside his own homeland. Thorin was unlikely to applaud any journey that ended with elves, and in any case he had formed his judgement of Bilbo a long time ago.

They may have got off on the wrong foot, with a few ups and downs after that, but after the goldsickness and the battle and the retaking of Erebor had settled, Thorin had evidently decided that Bilbo was a friend met on the road. Someone he was grateful to (and wasn't that a marvel, coming from Thorin?) for helping his people regain their home, someone to correspond with – but not someone necessary to his comfort, someone who also found a home in Erebor.

And still Bilbo cared about Thorin and what Thorin thought more than he did about anyone else, fool that he was. Travelling across Arda just because of a few missing letters, no less!

There really was no fool like an old fool, and his name was Bilbo Baggins, Bilbo thought surlily as he wrapped his muffler closer around his throat, vainly trying to keep the rain out.

It was a long way to Rivendell, so he had plenty of time to contemplate his folly.

He was greeted like an old friend by Elrond, and Bilbo realised with a start that they were – friends, that was. Those who dwelled in Rivendell had seemed wondrous to him during that first visit, but he had come to realise they were just people, like him and the dwarrow who also had seemed foreign at first (but in a very different way).

Now, he still marvelled at the Last Homely House, but he did not pinch himself to check if he really was there. He had seen a little of the world and learnt that marvellous (and horrible) things could happen to hobbits, too.

He did miss Thorin (and the other dwarrow, of course – they just did not spring to mind quite as instantly as their king) as he trod the same flagstones they had walked together.

Even though Thorin probably had endured rather than enjoyed his stay in Rivendell, Bilbo still felt closer to him there than he had on the road.

“Elves!”

Thorin roused himself only to spit out the word, then he returned to sleep.

Elrond had had little news to share about the dwarrow – he was too far away from the Lonely Mountain, and it had been years since the last caravan from Ered Luin had passed through.

Having listened gravely to Bilbo's explanation of why he was travelling again, Elrond did send him off with a promise that the little group of elves travelling towards the Greenwood would faithfully see him all the way through the forest. Bilbo would prefer not to test Thranduil's goodwill unless it was absolutely necessary.

He was conveyed across the Misty Mountains as so much baggage, he thought to himself as he plodded on, but Elrond's elves were more given to singing than the Rangers and they still fascinated him, even when he spent more of the time inside his own head dwelling on his friends in Erebor.

Bilbo would like to see what they had built since he left: he knew what dwarrow could do with minimal tools, so he could begin to imagine what they could achieve with a whole mountain at their disposal.

Snatches of a song returned to him, as he trod upwards towards the peaks of the Misty Mountains: many-pillared halls of stones, where harpers played and minstrels sang – would there be a place for a hobbit there, he wondered?

There had better be, at least temporarily, he thought grimly, after he had travelled all this way.

The trip through Mirk- Greenwood had mercifully been uneventful, and Bilbo waved goodbye to his escort at the edge of the forest.

The Long Lake wasn't far, and recent changes had left their mark on the area: the path onwards was well-trodden now, and there were even road markers, made from stone. They all had a carving of a bell, with an arrow beneath pointing the way. Bilbo did not doubt for a moment they were dwarven-made, although he lacked the skill to say for sure.

It started to feel like coming home, a little.

The Lonely Mountain towered over the horizon, and this time it was the home of his friends, not a dragon lair.

Before the gates of Erebor laid the dwellings of men. Bilbo was looking forward to seeing Bard again, as well.

It took him a long time to reach Lake Town on foot; he had been hoping to hitch a lift with a wagon heading in the same direction, or (if no wagons presented themselves), he would even have considered travelling by boat. There were no other travellers on the road, however, and the lake laid still, disturbed only by flocks of birds.

At the time it had been a relief not having to deal with Thranduil, but now Bilbo was regretting not seeking news from the elves of Greenwood.

“'Should-have-had is too late for ought-to's'” Bilbo quoted his father under his breath, and walked on.

He wasn't sure whether to bother with Lake Town; he knew from his letters that it had been partially abandoned as Dale rose again from the ruins (for some reason, Kíli was most likely to write about happenings outside Erebor – perhaps he had an official role outside the mountain he had neglected to mention).

Was there any point going there or should he head straight for Dale?

The decision was made for him: Lake Town was deserted, with no smoke coming from the chimneys and no sign of people, and so he trudged on towards Dale.

The clock towers did much to cheer him up; it was unfortunate he must have just missed the bells ringing, because they remained silent as he approached the gates. It was getting dark now, and he could hardly wait to sleep in a proper bed for the first time since Rivendell. It would be nice to exchange news with Bard and his family as well; he had been alone for many days since Elrond's elves had seen him off at the edge of the forest.

Company, a hearty dinner and then a soft bed would shake off this strange mood that had caught him; he almost tiptoed up to the gates, even though he could see the guards right there.

They did look rather relaxed, for guards.

That was probably a good sign – not a lot to guard against in Dale.

It was only when the tallest guard snored loudly Bilbo realised something was wrong. Ill-versed in the ways of men and warfare he may be, but he did know Bard would not let the gates to his city be guarded by men who slept at their post.

Bilbo was timid at first, but the lack of response to his polite cough drove him to more drastic measures.

Eventually, he had to concede defeat.

If shouting, shaking and flicking drops of water at the guards yielded no result, then he was sure Bard wouldn't mind if Bilbo made his own way in. Fortunately, the gate was unlocked, and even a hobbit could push it open.

The scene that met him exceeded his wildest imagination, even though the whole reason he was here was because something was wrong, and the somnolent state of the guards had given him some indication of what to expect.

Seeing a whole market square full of people sleeping; soundly sleeping men, women and children – not to mention the livestock – almost made him sit down on the spot.

There was movement: people twisted a little, coughed, or swatted half-heartedly at a fly buzzing, suspended in the air, and noise: some sleepers were snoring very loudly indeed, and the babe in her mothers arms just a few steps from him half-sobbed, half-snorted every few seconds, as if she had just fallen asleep after wearing herself out crying.

No one reacted to his presence; no one was startled as he gave up on polite hellos and resorted to screaming at the top of his lungs. Now Bilbo understood why the bells didn't ring out every hour.

Had the same fate overtaken the dwarrow in Erebor?

Suddenly, he could not bear to linger another moment; in a mute apology to the people of Dale, Bilbo bowed before turning around and walking out through the unguarded gate. Mumbling apologies, he pushed the gate shut behind him again, for all good it may to the people inside.

What in the world had happened? And how could it be undone?

Chapter Text

Thorin could feel the soft echo of familiar footsteps, getting closer and closer to the mountain, but he was unable to shake off the heavy mantle of sleep. He tossed and turned, caught like an insect crawling through thick honey.

It was not so very far between Erebor and Dale, but it felt like an eternity to Bilbo. Especially once he started passing sleeping travellers on the road, dwarrow and men alike. He started running then, afraid he would be overtaken by the same fate, but had to slow down after only a few hundred yards.

He only needed a couple of minute hunched over, trying and failing to catch his breath, before he was ready to continue at a more respectable pace – his recent travels had certainly made a mark.

Unfortunately, he was definitely still a hobbit; Bilbo still wasn't quite sure what he would do once he reached Erebor, but he would help his friends in whatever way he could. That was why he had come all this way, after all.

For Thorin, an unbidden thought whispered mockingly.

He sighed, squared his shoulders and continued on. So what if it was for mostly for Thorin's sake he had come? The King under the Mountain would never know, in any case, so it really didn't matter what Bilbo's private feelings were.

He would just have to be very, very careful never to let them show.

At the gates of Erebor, Bilbo realised there was a flaw in his plan.

Dwarrow never made did anything by half-measures, and so the gigantic gate was framed by two even more gigantic statues or dwarven warriors or whatnot, and nowhere was there a hobbit-shaped chink where Bilbo could slip in.

Multiple dwarrow and one stray man were sleeping on the ground or propped up against the gate, or against their horse that also was sleeping (at least horses were actually meant to sleep standing up, so it looked a lot more comfortable than the other sleepers), so Erebor was probably affected similarly to Dale.

There was no way of knowing for sure, though, so Bilbo took the precaution of knocking.

“Hello? Is there anyone at home?” he shouted, before realising a bit more formality may be called for, here at the entrance to the greatest dwarven kingdom on Middle Earth. He could feel his ears turning red.

He needn't have worried: there was no response from the inside whatsoever. Not even when he located a bell string, presumably used to attract attention from the inside, did anyone answer.

Bilbo let his legs slide down in front of him, until he was sitting with his back to the gate, slumped forwards.

Somewhere behind him were Thorin and the rest of the company, and uncounted thousands of other dwarrow. Most likely, all of them were asleep. And all he could do was to sit outside like a useless lump, after coming all this way –

Bilbo sat up straight, all of a sudden.

He, of all people, ought to have remembered there was another way into the mountain.

Bilbo kicked the dry heather with a vengeance. For once in his life, he ought to have remembered what his father used to say about fools and plans, and actually thought things through before climbing halfway up the mountain only to end up in front of another locked door –

Of course he had got in this way before. But then there had been a key to open the door, and besides, it had been Durin's Day…

Never had there been such a fool as Bilbo Baggins, he concluded bitterly. It was nearing autumn, as the golden glow adorning many trees informed him, but it was nowhere near Durin's Day yet, and even if it were, he still had no key.

All in all, he was no worse off than he had been at the gate, but somehow that failed to cheer him up. Even the view, familiar from all the time he had spent waiting around here the last time, did not seem adequate compensation for climbing all the way up here only to be greeted by unyielding mountainside.

Being back there reminded him of his friends – it felt like they were just a few steps away, still searching for a way in. How he wished he could talk to them just one more time – share a joke with Fíli and Kíli, or banter with Bofur, or see the twinkle in Balin's eye, or listen to Nori wind up Dori again while Ori giggled in his mittens. He wanted to give Bifur a hug, and share a cup of tea with Bombur, or just sit silently with Dwalin looking into the fire. If Glóin spent hours talking about his family, it wouldn't be too long for Bilbo, and shouting into Óin's trumpet to make sure he did not miss a word would be a joy.

It had been such a long way to get there, and he had done his level best to get on with it and not dwell too much on things (thinking about Thorin didn't count – Bilbo had always been constitutionally incapable of not thinking about Thorin since day they had met).

Realising that he may well never see the Company again – that they would remain on the inside and he on the outside, and there was nothing he could possibly do about it – was too much.

Bilbo wept bitterly, quite lost to his surroundings.

“Well met, Mr Baggins!” It was a very familiar voice, for all that it was unexpected, and very, very welcome.

There he stood on the ledge, tall and weatherworn, leaning heavily on his staff after the stiff climb, and Bilbo was so overcome he burst out laughing.

“Gandalf!”

They had a pipe, to settle Bilbo's nerves, and he told the wizard all about his travels and what he had found once he arrived.

“But you must have known some of it, because you're here! Did you receive any of my letters?”

“I did receive news of you, after a fashion. The lack of news from Erebor concerned me, so here I am.”

“In the nick of time, as always!” The relief came bubbling out as laughter again; nothing ever went very wrong when Gandalf was about.

“I assume you are ready to save our foolish friends again, Master Burglar?” Gandalf look very grave, but Bilbo knew him well enough to spot the twinkle in his eye.

“At your service. Although I hope you have the key –“ Suddenly, the reality of the situation came crashing down again. Bilbo grabbed Gandalf's sleeve, paying no mind to the wizard's sudden alarm.

“What will we do, Gandalf? It's a long time to Durin's day, and even then –“

“Fear not, Bilbo.” Gandalf patted his pocket, gently extracting his arm from Bilbo's grasp at the same time. “Thorin saw the advantages of having a spare key, as it were, so I can open the door at any time. Should Erebor be in great peril, which I believe it is.”

Bilbo's neck was quite sore, not to mention his back – he must have been sitting there for a long time. Nevertheless, he rose, dusted off his trousers and donned his pack again.

“Well then – what are we waiting for?”

A smile hid in Gandalf's beard: “I'm afraid I have urgent business elsewhere, now that I have found you. I will open the door, but first –“ He had also risen and looked down at Bilbo with a fire banked in his dark eyes. Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered exactly how old the wizard was, and what he had seen during his long years wandering Middle-Earth.

“Trust your heart, Bilbo. I believe it must be you who rouses Erebor. There is a reason your path led you here, remember that.”

Bilbo nodded, not knowing what else to do, and Gandalf pulled a little key from somewhere about his person. He lifted his hand, and a hole appeared in the mountain side. Bilbo watched Gandalf turn the key, and for the second or third time in his life (he couldn't even remember anymore – his father would be turning in his grave), Bilbo faced a mouth of darkness.

“Right, then,” he managed. “I'll be off, so.”

It was different, this time. There wasn't a dragon at the other end of the tunnel; his friends were there instead, struck by calamity and in need of his aid.

Bilbo snorted to himself: Master Burglar and Rescuer of Erebor, that was him! Whatever had struck the dwarrow had better be not so very serious, because he doubted he and Sting could do much on their own.

Nevertheless, onwards he crept, sword at the ready; it did make him more confident to observe the complete absence of a blue glow from Sting, even though the darkness made the tunnel hard to navigate.

Eventually, he noticed a faint light; it seemed to come from the walls, and he would have stopped to investigate the source had he been in less of a hurry. As it was, he simply noticed the smooth walls of the tunnel acquired patterns and contrasting stones as he got further down the passage (had they done that the last time? He couldn't remember; the prospect of dragons had a wonderful way to concentrate the mind).

Finally, the tunnel ended at a door.

That had definitely not been there the last time.

“Confusticated dwarrow! Why must they go and put up doors – of all the birdwitted, idiotic, hard of thinking – “

Bilbo leant his head heavily on the door in frustration – only for it to swing open.

He shut his mouth audibly. “Well, I – I guess that is one way of doing it. Open tunnels are so unsightly.”

Having no desire to linger in the treasury chamber – Bilbo had seen more gold than he ever wanted to a long time ago, and he wasn't particularly eager to revisit the memories of pretending to search for the Arkenstone – he swiftly made his way out and into the rest of the mountain.

Erebor was brightly lit, he found; a golden glow increased to almost daylight intensity where people worked and congregated, and Bilbo marvelled at dwarven ingenuity. He would like to explore the Mountain once all this was over, to see all the things his friends had written to him about.

There was just this little hiccup to get over with first.

He picked his way through the throngs of sleeping dwarrow, dodging sharp axes and gently pushing stray limbs out of the way. When he reached a narrow passage, even that wasn't enough – he had to climb over the sleeping masses, apologising all the way as he tried to keep his feet out of their faces. He had to stop on the other side, to let his heart slow down: it felt like a nightmare, even though he was the only person awake.

In Dale, he had noticed that fires seemed to be frozen – there was a glow still there, but open flames never threatened their sleeping attendants. It was one thing to see the Men's small cooking fires; quite another to watch the great forges of Erebor sleeping. Even from a walkway many yards above, he could still feel the heat – he wondered how the smiths below fared when the fires were roaring.

Thorin was a smith, he recalled – was there a royal forge, perhaps? The king was probably busy with matters of state, but dwarrow did prize their crafts –

It was very hard not to think about Thorin as Bilbo walked through his kingdom. Of course he was looking for Thorin – Gandalf had told him to listen to his heart, and his heart had been crying out or Thorin ever since he set out from the Shire. Thorin was why he was here in the first place; if he was entirely honest with himself, Thorin was probably the reason he had set out on his adventure to start with.

Erebor was very large and Bilbo didn't have a map; he had some sense of where he was underground and remembered enough to stick to the Running River once he found it, but he had plenty of time to dwell on things as he picked his way through the halls.

At the beginning he had looked for familiar faces everywhere, but after examining thousands of bearded faces he had almost given up. There were so many dwarrow, what were the chances he would find his particular friends?

He was trying to find the throne room or the royal quarters; surely that was his best chance to find Thorin, as well as the others.

As he walked and climbed and pushed his way forward, looking for busy hallways and anything that suggested official business, Bilbo worked on setting his expectations right. If he by some miracle managed to wake everyone up, Thorin wouldn't want to see him as much as he wanted to see Thorin. He certainly hoped the goodwill from helping the dwarrow out of the mess they were in currently (assuming he did get them out of it, of course – it was a lot easier to be confident when Gandalf was around) would be enough for an invitation to stay for a while.

That would have to be enough.

He was relatively certain that the rest of the Company would be as happy to see him as he would be to see them; that was a merrier thought, and it sustained Bilbo all the way to the great Entrance Hall of Erebor. Or rather, what he assumed must be on the other site of the enormous gates he had seen from the outside.

It certainly hadn't looked like this the last time he was there.

There was even daylight: Bilbo had lost all track of time, but feeling sun rays (filtered through something that probably wasn't glass but looked like it) was like waking up in the morning.

Suddenly, he felt alert; the feeling of wading through honey disappeared.

The impossibly high walls of the great hall were a deep green with flickers of gold, with arches and balconies cut into the face of the rock.

There were guards everywhere, with ravens on their crests and shining armour. To Bilbo's disappointment, none of them were Dwalin, although they looked equally fierce (Bilbo happened to know Dwalin dribbled when he slept, so he could make a true comparison). And there –

Over there was a very familiar hat, and once he had made his way over the dwarf beneath snored in an equally familiar way.

“Bofur!”

Bilbo wiped away the tears from his eyes – there was no time for that now – and shook Bofur with all his might. He even tried tickling, remembering it had been the only way to get Bofur to wake up for the third watch.

“Bofur, wake up! I'll take your hat – I swear, I will take it!” His hands were shaking but he stuck to his word; as the hat slid of Bofur's head, Bilbo held his breath.

“Bifur, urnalu, brmph,” was all Bofur said, followed by a tremendous snore. He didn't even attempt to grab his hat back, and Bilbo was left holding it, feeling like the worst kind of burglar and thief.

“I'm very sorry, Bofur,” he said quietly, putting the hat back and patting Bofur's head in apology. “I was hoping I could – but never mind.”

Follow his heart, Gandalf had said – hadn't he known all the time he needed to get to Thorin to lift whatever magic this was?

The best thing he could do for Bofur was to make speed to find Thorin. Yet, it was very hard to leave his friend behind, not even knowing if he could find his way back to him again. He tied a white handkerchief around Bofur's mattock, as a tiny sign in the huge hall.

As he climbed a staircase that looked important – it was covered in gold, which was generally a good sign – he looked back and the tiny white dot and the slightly larger blob beneath it that was Bofur's head, and wished he could stay there and let someone else take care of everything.

Bilbo didn't need Gandalf to tell him that wasn't an option, though, so instead he squared his shoulders and climbed the staircase.

Finally, he seemed to have some luck.

The guards looked nicer, with better silver adorning their armour – if that was possible, but it did seem shinier. A bit like his mailcoat – and there was a pair at every set of doors. There were statues and decorations everywhere, and even what looked like jewels adorning walls and ceilings. He must be on the right track.

Finally, he stepped into a throne room – thankfully devoid of Arkenstones – only for his hopes to find Thorin there to be dashed. It was Fíli who sat on a slightly smaller throne, head propped precariously on his palm as his elbow rested on the armrest.

Bilbo knew it wouldn't work, but he still tore at him, shouting Fíli's name in his ear.

When he finally gave up and looked around at the rest of the room, he saw more of his friends among the score of very fine-looking dwarrow dozing on the floor. One would have to be deaf not to recognise Glóin's snores, and Dwalin was there, too – half-standing, half-sitting at a door at the back.

His heart hammering against his ribs, Bilbo pushed past Dwalin.

A strong hand caught his ankle, breaking his stride – Bilbo spun around, finding Sting in his hand as if by magic.

“Oh, Dwalin, you will have to let me go,” he said, hoping against hope that this might be enough to rouse the dwarf. It wasn't, of course, which quickly proved to become a problem.

Dwalin would not release him.

Bilbo tried prising his fingers loose, to no avail; the dwarf just grunted and held on for dear life, no matter what Bilbo did. Even when Bilbo resorted to kicking, it didn't make a difference.

“I'm here to save your king, you idiot – let go!”

That didn't work either, of course – shouting didn't work on Dwalin even when he was awake.

“Oh, for the love of –“ Bilbo cast around wildly for ideas. He was not going to hurt his friend, but what could he do?

Oh. Maybe. He just had to remember it correctly – usually there had been a lot of other things going on at the same time, so he hadn't exactly been concentrating…

Bilbo took a deep breath and bellowed: “DU-BEKÂR!” in Dwalin's ear.

The sleeping dwarf immediately reached for his weapons, which was exactly what Bilbo had been hoping for.

He could hear Dwalin roar “Khazâd ai-mênu!” behind him, whatever that may mean, but he was already halfway through the next room by then.

It was just a passageway, and soon he was in front of a less ornate door. It was unlocked, fortunately – Dwalin guarding it should be more than sufficient security measures – and once he opened it –

There was Thorin.

Bilbo would have recognised him anywhere, from the set of his shoulders alone. His wonderful hair spilled down everywhere, with only a few new streaks of silver in it. He was draped over a large desk covered by letters, maps and books, snoring softly as Bilbo entered.

His face was turned the other way, so Bilbo tiptoed around him.

It was different to see Thorin like this – no crown, wearing just a shirt and a tunic. His face was different, too – a little softer around the edges, just like Bilbo had seen it by countless campfires. It was like coming home to see his face again, being so close at last –

Bilbo hadn't even noticed his hand stretching out to touch Thorin's cheek before it was halfway there.

He snatched it back, embarrassment burning on his cheeks.

Was this how he would behave around the King Under the Mountain, if he got half the chance? Then he may as well take himself off home again, before Thorin had him tossed out. Only Thorin wasn't really in a position to do anything at the moment, and Bilbo was supposed to be here to help him, not to ogle his face.

He still hadn't figured out what he actually as supposed to do, however. Faced with the end of his quest, he was at a loss for what needed to happen next, and Bilbo suddenly felt ridiculous.

What had he been thinking, believing he could barge in and put everything to rights? Since the average hobbit was about as magical as a spade, it was ludicrous to suppose he would be able to do something.

Preposterous.

Putting his hands in his pockets, as he often did when uncertain of something, Bilbo felts his fingers close around his magic ring. He had brought it on a last minute whim, reasoning it was better to have it than not, but he hadn't spent much thought on it, being busy worrying about other things.

Now it occurred to him that if he put it on, he would truly be the Master Burglar of Erebor: walking around unseen, master of his domain…

Bilbo cast one look at Thorin, the actual King under the Mountain, and forgot all about the ring. He had come all this way for Thorin, and he had to find a way to help him.

“Thorin, wake up!”

He tried shouting, to no avail.

“Thorin, wake up!” he pleaded, no longer keeping his distance, but shaking Thorin's shoulder.

“Bilbo,” came a muffled reply, and Bilbo felt tremendous relief.

“Yes, it's me, now wake up! You can do it, come on!” But it was fruitless; Bilbo shook and prodded him, but Thorin only smiled to himself and slept on. Bilbo got more and more desperate – he had been so certain he would be able to wake Thorin, to lift the enchantment.

“What do I do now?” Bilbo almost wailed to the ceiling (at a different time, he may have been in a mood to appreciate how it had been decorated to look like a starry sky at night), when the answer struck him.

“Trust your heart,” Gandalf had said. Well, if he did –

If he did what he wanted to do most of all –

Well, he had practically been ordered to do it, by a wizard. The world had come to a pretty pass if one stopped taking the advice of a wizard when it came to magic, right?

“Here goes nothing,” Bilbo mumbled to himself and leaned forward, moving his face closer and closer to Thorin's, until he was within touching – kissing – distance. Then he opened his eyes, unwilling to waste even a moment of his.

His lips touched Thorin's, very gently, and Thorin opened his eyes.

Bilbo's heart stopped.

They were blue, so blue – he had imagined looking into Thorin's eyes again a hundred, a thousand times, but he hadn't remembered how blue they were.

“Thorin,” he whispered, stretching a hand out to get even closer, almost touching Thorin's cheek.

Thorin's head lolled and he snored loudly.

“Oh, for pity's sake!” Bilbo snapped, rudely returned to reality. There must be something else he could do – hang on a minute, what was it the dwarrow did, again?

They clasped each other's necks and touched foreheads – or banged them together, but Bilbo wasn't going to be doing that –

It required a little manoeuvring to get Thorin to sit up so Bilbo could get to his neck, and then he collapsed back down again twice before Bilbo resorted to using his pack to prop him up. Eventually, Bilbo was holding Thorin's in both hands, having given up on trying to make Thorin's hands rest on his own shoulders. He may as well try this way, in case it worked.

Oh, who was he fooling?

He knew very well it wasn't going to work, so it didn't really matter.

Nevertheless, he took a deep breath before gently bending his forehead towards Thorin, resting in the moment as he reached his destination, feeling the soft flow of Thorin's breath on his face. Thorin's hair was falling down his shoulders, and he smelled pleasant for someone who must have been asleep for many months. Bilbo took another breath, filling his lungs with Thorin's scent – for just one moment, he wasn't scared or frustrated or trying to find a way to do the impossible.

He was as close to Thorin as he always had wished he could be, and so help him, he was going to enjoy it.

Well, if he was going to hell anyway –

He hesitated for a moment, then he angled his head and kissed Thorin again, very softly.

“Oh, Thorin,” he sighed on the exhale, letting the name linger on his lips and leaving his eyes closed.

“Yes?”

“What?” Bilbo shrieked, quickly pulling his hands back and springing to his feet.

It was Thorin who had spoken, of course – and he was awake! His wonderful eyes were fixed on Bilbo, who had to fight very hard not to just stare into them for as long as he could.

“What – Why – Did you just arrive?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo took a moment to imagine what this must be like from Thorin's point of view.

“You will never guess what just happened,” he said weakly, just as a very agitated guard burst through the open door with Dwalin in hot pursuit.

Chapter Text

After many – many, many – explanations, the key facts had been established.

A great many people had been asleep.

They were now awake.

This included the men of Dale, who had sent a messenger who was in a great hurry to confirm if the dwarrow had been asleep and subsequently woken up, too.

Bilbo had not been affected by whatever had overtaken the dwarrow and men; neither had Gandalf. This was in no way conclusive evidence, as the number of other wizards and hobbits in the area was zero.

Somehow all this was connected to Thorin, as everyone else had woken up as soon as he did.

Around this point, Bilbo had dozed off – unlike everyone else around him, it had been a long time since he had last slept.

He only woke up when someone gently shook his elbow. For a moment, he was confused: he had woken them all up, hadn't he? Had everyone gone back to sleep? Then, he realised it was he who had gone to sleep this time, and relaxed his tense shoulders.

“Would you like to get some sleep? In a proper bed, I mean,” Thorin said, his voice pitched low.

A dwarf Bilbo wasn't familiar with was going on about the risks this posed to the Longbeards; as Bilbo didn't know what a Longbeard was and didn't really care at the moment, he nodded.

In short order, Bilbo was whisked away by Balin, who he only had time to greet in passing, and conveyed to a bedchamber where he registered absolutely nothing except the ginormous bed.

Bilbo had no idea where he was when he woke up; the room was lit by a soft golden glow, and finding himself in an actual bed for once was enough to throw him into confusion.

He was still wearing his travel-worn clothes, and Sting had been thrown on the floor alongside his pack. Donning his sword but leaving the pack behind, he went to find out what was going on.

It was difficult to move at first; it felt like walking through water.

He must have been asleep for a very long time.

Someone had helpfully left a tray of food and water for washing in his room, so he was able to refresh himself; he felt like a new hobbit as he opened his door and stepped out to see what was afoot in the mountain.

There were guards at his door, and more guards across the hall. They looked very smart, just like the ones he had come across when getting closer to Thorin, so Bilbo deduced he must be close to the royal apartments, or whatever the proper name was.

He was just debating with himself what the correct way to ask if Balin was around would be, when he was spared the conundrum by Dwalin charging down the hall.

He stopped abruptly when he spotted Bilbo.

“Bilbo! You're a sight for sore eyes,” he greeted him, and Bilbo didn't have time to adjust to the effusive greeting (by Dwalin standards) before he plowed on: “Can you see if you can talk some sense into the king?”

“I can try,” Bilbo said weakly. It had never worked before, but who was he to refuse ventures with little chance of success?

Thorin could be found in another office; this one looked a bit more informal. His desk was overflowing with documents here, too, and it was only when Bilbo looked around he realised it must be meant to be a sitting room, what with the huge fireplace and comfortable-looking furniture placed in front of it.

Trust Thorin to find a way to turn a place for rest into a workplace.

Thorin did not look so great; his eyes were red-rimmed, and he swayed ever so slightly in his chair.

“When did you last sleep, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, concern spilling into his voice.

“You know when.” His voice was gravelly.

“Well, might I suggest you catch some sleep, then?” Bilbo suggested crisply, hearing the door shut behind Dwalin. He understood his assignment now.

“I can't – Bilbo, what if I can't wake up again? What if everyone else goes back to sleep, too?” Thorin stared at him, and where Bilbo would have been lost before he learnt to read between the lines time had carved on that face, bewilderment and fear was now writ large.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, and Thorin nodded, as if all was now clear.

If that's what the King Under the Mountain believed, he had not reckoned with the hobbit currently in residence.

“So you're going to stay awake indefinitely, then? How is that going to work, exactly?” Bilbo took pity on Thorin; he was clearly not up to using logic or coherent sentences. “How about this: I'll stay here with you to wake you up, if it comes to it? I can check in on the guards outside to see if they fall asleep when you do, as well.”

“I – Yes – Would you do that?” Relief was fighting with something else on Thorin's face; Bilbo couldn't quite figure out what.

“Of course I will. Go to sleep, now.”

Thorin stood up, stumbled a couple of steps and crashed on the bench in front of the fire. It was covered with animal hides, so it was cosy enough, but Bilbo still put one of the blankets he found draped across a chair over him.

The deep, rattling snores emanating from Thorin were a pretty reliable indication he was fast asleep (Bilbo could have identified each member of the Company based on their snoring alone, even after all those years), but Bilbo tiptoed over to check anyway.

Yes, Thorin was asleep, and if Bilbo lingered a little longer than necessary to watch the softness of his face, there was no one to tell.

Except Bilbo had an important task, now that he thought about it, and so he walked softly towards the door, opening it slowly so as not to startle anyone holding sharp implements on the other side.

To his relief, Dwalin was there, speaking to the guards – all three of them were very awake, indeed.

Bilbo considered: perhaps they could have a delayed reaction.

Dwalin turned to him immediately: “Bilbo?”

“He's asleep. Would Balin be able to meet me here in – say half an hour, or so?”

It was rather nice to sit in front of the fire, watching over the sleeping king.

Oh, who was he kidding?

Being in the same room as Thorin was like living in one of his daydreams; even the snoring was a confirmation Bilbo was right where he wanted to be.

He was careful not to think of how long it would last for; there was no point borrowing tomorrow's trouble, as his father would have said.

That was the exact moment Balin burst in, and Bilbo reminded himself this was a good sign. A Balin who was awake was exactly what Erebor needed right now.

“Laddie, you did it!” Balin whispered. “I've been trying to get him to sleep for the best part of the day, and he wouldn't have it – but you don't need to hear about that. Want to step out for a minute?”

“I promised Thorin I would stay here,” Bilbo said; an orc horde couldn't have moved him from his post.

He probably revealed a bit too much, because Balin gave him a horribly knowing look. “That would have done it, aye.”

“Well, I'd rather stay here just in case, please and thank you.”

“You do that, Master Baggins. In the meantime, perhaps I can interest you in some recent news?”

It was only when Bilbo barely could stay awake any longer that he finally woke Thorin. He had been thoroughly briefed on current affairs and recent developments in Erebor by Balin, so he now knew more than any hobbit needed to know about the promising iron ores in Shaft III.

Thankfully, he had also been fed and watered. Balin had even located some books Bilbo was able to read, and had dispatched Ori with them, so he got the pleasure of greeting his friend properly. There had been short, snatched reunions with a few members of the company as well.

Ori had come bearing the sort of news Bilbo was truly eager to hear, about how Dori's bid for rebuilding the Weaver's guildhall was going and how Bombur's wife was faring after delivering their latest pebble.

Fíli and Kíli had visited very briefly, too, but Bilbo unceremoniously booted them out when they couldn't keep their voices down.

He dared to count on there being time to spend time with his friends before he had to leave Erebor, especially after being briefed by Balin (he was amused to be at the receiving end of something Balin usually would address to Thorin, recognising the manner of speaking from their journey). No one had yet figured out what had happened to send Thorin to sleep, and the whole mountain and Dale with him; until they did, everyone was rather keen on Bilbo staying around.

It was easy to reassure Balin he was quite happy to, as long as Thorin invited him to remain; it was harder to decipher Balin's amused look.

Bilbo wasn't going to waste the time he had to watch Thorin sleep trying to figure out Balin's reaction; instead, he watched the blanket over Thorin's chest rise ever so slightly with every breath, and didn't stop until his own eyes were growing heavy.

A quick check confirmed the latest set of guards were awake and alert; Bilbo finally approached Thorin to wake him up.

He hadn't fully understood Thorin's reactions until now: reaching out to shake Thorin's shoulder required all his courage.

“Thorin,” he said gently, only to find himself faced with Thorin going from asleep to standing in the blink of an eye.

“Bilbo?” he asked as his hand went to where Orcrist normally would be.

“Yes, it's me,” Bilbo said hurriedly, hoping he was not the reason Thorin went looking for his sword.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said again, sitting down heavily. “Are you – I mean, I am pleased to see you in Erebor.”

Bilbo had to laugh. “Thank you. I am pleased to be here, too, only I am about to fall asleep on you and I have no idea how to get back to my room, and besides I couldn't leave until you knew it was all right and everyone is still awake –“

“Oh.” Thorin's shoulders sank very slightly, only noticeable to someone who was paying him very close attention.

Someone like Bilbo.

In very short order, Bilbo was returned to his room, and succumbed to sleep again.

When he woke up, he was determined to get his bearings and figure out what was going on.

His determination took him all the way to what appeared to be a very serious meeting, clearly chaired by Thorin but full of unfamiliar dwarrow. Bilbo, realising he was by far the most shabbily dressed of the lot, refused to be cowed. He put on an air of assurance that somehow drove him to sit down on Thorin's left hand side, where there happened to be an empty chair.

He noticed Fíli beaming at him from Thorin's other side, so he couldn't have done so badly.

It didn't take very long before he was unable to stay quiet, however.

“Have you asked the elves in Mirkwood – begging your pardon, Greenwood?” he asked, the first chance he got to put in a few words edgewise.

Faced with uncomprehending looks, he explained: “We are trying to establish what happened during Th – the king's naming ceremony, yes? Surely asking if anyone in the neighbouring kingdom of immortal elves remembers ought to be the next course of action, now that Balin has confirmed the royal archives were destroyed by Smaug.”

He was met by flat silence and was just beginning to regret voicing his very reasonable suggestion, when Fíli put him out of his misery:

“That's brilliant, Bilbo! Don't you agree, Uncle?”

Bilbo was immediately suspicious: Fíli only ever called Thorin 'uncle' when he was trying to wheedle him into something, but since the whole table erupted in debate at the same time he didn't have time to consider it further.

Eventually, it was settled; Bilbo was somehow volunteered to write a message to be sent by raven to Thranduil, and at the end of the meeting he was introduced to the members of Thorin's council that he did not know already (which would be most of them, except Fíli, Balin and Glóin).

“That could have gone worse, I suppose,” he told himself on the way out; Fíli had helpfully ushered him towards the different door than the one he had arrived through.

This was good, because he recognised the next room and might actually be able to make his own way back to his room.

“Persuading my council to agree on anything to do with elves is an outstanding success, don't tell yourself otherwise. Or have you forgotten what it was like dealing with those 'confusticated dwarves' you used to complain about?” Thorin was waiting for him, and easily fell in next to Bilbo.

“It's coming back to me, all right.”

“That's good –“ Thorin began, just to be interrupted by a dark-haired, heavily armed whirlwind.

“Bilbo!” Kíli picked him up and swung him around, before putting him down and very gently touching his forehead to Bilbo's. “I hear you're bringing previously unheard of levels of common sense to the council. Please tell me you mean to stay on.”

“I – I – ” Bilbo stammered, suddenly remembering the subject had not come up for discussion again, not on the council or anywhere else.

“I forgot, you told Balin it was up to Thorin to ask you to stay in Erebor. So I assume that has been sorted, then?”

The expression Kíli directed at Thorin was… complicated, and the way Thorin cleared the room with little more than a hand gesture did little to reassure him.

“Bilbo. Master Baggins. I have done you many injustices, but at least I can set this right. Without you, we wouldn't have won back Erebor: not a single dwarf here would dispute your right to take your place under the mountain.”

“Thorin –“ Bilbo tried, but was shut down.

“If a gold-plated invitation would be more suitable according to your customs, I will issue one. Until then, know this: you have fought and bled for Erebor, and you will always have a home here should you desire it.”

“I – That would be just right, actually. I don't need an invitation, though: I'm not a very respectable hobbit anymore.” Then, he couldn't help himself because Thorin looked so earnest and like it really mattered to him that Bilbo felt welcome in his kingdom: “Thank you, Thorin. That – that means a lot.”

It was only the second time he found himself embraced by Thorin Oakenshield, and it was even better than the first time.

They did not say much afterwards, just walked off to their respective quarters; Thorin no doubt had more important things to think about than hobbits, while Bilbo walked around with his head in the clouds for the better part of the day.

Fortunately for him, he had mostly recovered when he finally met Bofur again. They shared a friendly pipe, and Bilbo couldn't remember feeling so happy for a very long time.

Bofur cast him one or two shrewd glances, but held his peace.

For now; if Bilbo truly was to live among the dwarrow, would he be able to keep his infatuation with Thorin secret?

He decided that was a problem for another day, and took another puff on his pipe.

Chapter Text

It did not take very long for a raven to deliver a reply from Thranduil: it contained an invitation to Bilbo to visit Eryn Lasgalen that affronted all dwarrow who read it (which of course was the reason the Elven king had issued it).

It also confirmed that a disturbance had occurred at Thorin's naming ceremony more than two hundred years ago. The birth of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin, had been an important event. Invitations to his naming ceremony had been issued far and wide, which explained why a representative for Mirkwood had been invited (although Thranduil didn't quite put it that way).

The letter did not explain what actually had happened at the ceremony; instead, Thranduil had dispatched his son Legolas to visit Erebor, as he had been present at the time.

Bilbo did know intellectually that Thorin was many centuries younger than Legolas, but it still did not make sense to him that Legolas would have been an adult prince when Thorin was just a baby – or pebble, he corrected himself.

The wait was tense, for some: Bilbo made the most of feeling at home in Erebor, exploring markets and caverns and moss gardens. He was even dragged to see some mines, but politely declined more visits after learning that one shaft was much like another to hobbits, however lyrical Bifur may wax about them.

The arrival of Legolas Thranduilion to the kingdom of Erebor was announced with fanfare.

Bilbo admired the great gates from the outside again (they did look a lot more welcoming when open wide) as he lined up with the rest of the Company, but was just as impatient to hear the full story as the rest of the king's retinue.

Being a hobbit, he was much better at hiding it, so it fell to him to converse politely with Legolas as they made their way through the mountain. He glanced sideways at Thorin and Balin to see if he was overstepping (this was diplomacy, technically speaking), but the former simply looked pleased and the latter winked at him, so he carried on all the way into the throne room.

There, they all arranged themselves formally, and after a minimum of persiflage Legolas started telling his story.

The novelty of having a room of dwarrow hanging at his every word seemed to do Legolas good: he got more confident as Balin nodded when he mentioned Thror's tendency towards pomp and circumstance, dressing the score of horn blowers he deemed necessary in scarlet, or Glóin recalled the crown worn on the day by the queen.

Thorin's grandmother, Bilbo was startled to realise.

“And then,” Legolas made a dramatic pause. The whole room fell silent. “The doors opened –“

With that, the very same doors as in his retelling swung open.

A great many weapons were drawn, and Bilbo swiftly found himself surrounded by a forest of axes and swords.

His hand rested on Sting, but he recognised the tall figure at the other en of the room almost immediately.

“Peace,” Gandalf said as he advanced, holding his hands up to show they were empty. “I am simply here to tell the king the origins of the calamity that befell him. Unless he no longer needs my help, of course?” His eyebrows drew together, threatening like dark clouds above the mountain.

Bilbo felt it best to explain what was going on; it had been his idea to write to Thranduil, after all.

“I see,” Gandalf said at the end. “We should let our friend finish his tale: I will add my part of the story at the end.”

Legolas picked up his thread again: “The doors opened, and a fearsome creature entered. I know not how she got through the front gates, or past the guards on the way. It was a female, but with bat wings rather than normal arms, and a great iron claw instead of hands. I could feel evil radiating from her.”

He shuddered and so did the dwarrow surrounding him, in rare accord.

“She said –“ He closed his eyes in an effort to remember: “She cursed the name of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and swore that a great calamity would befall him: he would die as soon as he became King Under the Mountain.”

Bilbo and most of the others turned around to stare at Thorin, very much alive and with a hand on his sword, presumably if the creature dared to return.

“Then she flew off, never to be seen again by any of us from Eryn Lasgalen. I never understood why she was there in the first place. What does an Ainu care for the line of Durin? My father said – he thought she had fallen in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, never to rise again.” Legolas had relaxed a little bit, sounding puzzled rather than solemn.

“I was there, too, that day,” Gandalf said and Bilbo was suddenly not surprised at all. Of course he had been – the wizard had probably known exactly what was unfolding the whole time.

“Don't you roll your eyes at me, Bilbo Baggins – I was there, and I did my best to prevent Thorin from coming to any harm. As is shown by him being alive and well here today, despite being crowned King Under the Mountain several years ago. The ill-fated visitor's name was Thuringwethil, and she was indeed believed to have perished a long time ago. I did not know then who had sent her, but once the magic had taken root I could tell the source.”

Bilbo looked at Thorin again, suddenly afraid that the curse would somehow strike again, but the king was busy listening to Gandalf.

The wizard was suddenly looking old and worn, and for the umpteenth time Bilbo wondered how old he really was.

“I had to travel fast and far, to strike at the root of evil. It is a great calamity that it grew where it did, and I could not allow it to continue unchecked. Besides, I knew Bilbo was the only person who could lift the curse, in any case.”

“What?”
“Why?”
“The Burglar?”
“I knew it! He has to stay this time, no matter what Th- anyone says!”

“Silence!” Gandalf hit the floor with his staff, and the furore died down somewhat. “It had to be Bilbo, not me, so I was able to deal with urgent matters elsewhere. Now that I have confirmed all is well in Erebor and no bad influences linger, may I exchange a few words with the King?”

Gandalf disappeared into a different room with Thorin, who Bilbo noticed didn't look confused at all. Rather, he looked horribly resigned, as if this confirmed something he had feared, and Bilbo ached to tag along after him to find out what it was.

It was not to be, however; he was left behind in a room full of dwarrow debating the recent revelations at the top of their voices. Unsurprisingly, no one seemed to be very concerned about the part of the story he was most interested in, namely why him?

Why had Bilbo, not Gandalf, been the person who could break the curse?

He very much doubted it was because hobbits were impervious to the magic of this Thuringwethil person: surely, Gandalf would be better placed to resist it, being a wizard and all.

It made no sense at all.

He wondered how Thorin felt about all this: learning he had been cursed for some mysterious reason (and only then did it dawn upon Bilbo that perhaps that was what Gandalf was telling him in private at that precise moment), and as a baby, to boot: he really hadn't had a lot of luck in life.

Until now, that was: everything had to be all right now, surely?

Bilbo did not see Thorin again until much later that day; then, the king looked worn out, as if he had received bad news. Bilbo ached for Thorin, wishing he could – oh, so many things he would like to do.

Instead, he settled for a quiet pipe, not wanting to bring back the memories of the day. They smoked in companionable silence, Bilbo refraining from asking the questions burning on the tip of his tongue.

He did permit himself one question, though: “Did Gandalf said the curse was dispelled now? There's no risk it will come back?”

Thorin's shoulders sank as he replied: “None. He was quite adamant about that.”

Why that would make Thorin look like he had lost his favourite axe was a mystery to Bilbo, but he did not push to find out anything else.

By the end of their smoke, Thorin was looking a little happier.

Bilbo did not want to overstate his influence, but he did think it was because he had been tactful and undemanding (neither trait generally practiced much by dwarrow). Perhaps Thorin needed someone restful to relax with.

Bilbo was very willing to pick up that mantle.

Of course, that meant he still did not know how Thorin felt about all this, and it seemed like something was missing in the story. Why Bilbo, of all people? He was no one special to Thorin, even though Thorin had been reason enough for Bilbo to go on an adventure of all things – twice!

Bilbo had never dared hope his feelings towards Thorin would ever be reciprocated. Even if Thorin hadn't been king, he deserved someone as wonderful as he was: brave, wise and perfect in every way (except perhaps his sense of direction).

Not someone like Bilbo, who was just an ordinary hobbit.

For some reason this failed to cheer him up, and he returned to his rooms to mope for the rest of the evening before going to bed early.

Bilbo was there in his dreams, always: that's how he knew they were dreams. Bilbo deserved so much better than Thorin, who just took and took and never could pay back Bilbo's kindness. Even after he had sworn to do better, after the goldsickness had lifted, he had still needed Bilbo to come halfway across the world to wake him up so his kingdom wouldn't stay asleep forever.

He couldn't ask for any more; his grasping heart must be satisfied with having Bilbo near for this short season and not more.

If he were lucky, he would still meet Bilbo in his dreams.

“Our burglar does not know, Thorin. What was immediately obvious to every Khuzd in the room when the Thranduilion and Tharkûn were telling their stories, made no sense to him because he is not a dwarf. So you have to tell him.”

Dís was a pain in the arse. Balin could ultimately be ignored in personal matters, but his sister would not leave it alone, going to the extreme of threatening to tell Bilbo if Thorin did not.

That could not be allowed: she may do it badly and make Bilbo reconsider his decision to stay in the mountain for now (Thorin was very careful not to regard it as him residing there permanently; he could not afford to be disappointed once Bilbo inevitably remembered he was meant to live amongst green and growing things).

Thorin would have to find a way to tell him of dwarven Ones, in a way that made it clear that Thorin and Erebor placed no obligation on him whatsoever. He chose to do it the next time he was meeting Bilbo for a smoke and a walk on the ramparts, hobbits apparently being partial to fresh air.

Bilbo made it easy for him by asking what it was that worried him, which gave Thorin a chance to provide his carefully rehearsed explanation.

“So this – these ones you're talking about, they're a dwarf's true love?”

Thorin nodded.

“And everyone knows of this?”

“Every dwarf,” Thorin corrected him, unable to suppress a smile; Bilbo being curious was such a quintessential part of him.

“So it was because of Ones I could wake you up? That's why Gandalf said it has to be me, not him?”

They shared a brief look, brimming with laughter at the thought of Gandalf being someone's One.

“Yes,” Thorin confirmed again.

“Why? I mean, why me, specifically?”

Thorin had not expected this, so he had no answer prepared. “Because – Don't you know – You're my One love. Obviously.”

Bilbo stopped walking, so Thorin did, too.

He realised he had left out the most important part, and rushed to add it: “A dwarf's love is theirs to give, but they cannot expect anything in return. This should not – You should not let this influence your decision to go back to the Shire in any way.”

Bilbo laughed shakily. “You’re saying I’m your one and only love, so I shouldn’t feel pressured to stay?”

Thorin nodded, pleased that he was getting the message across so clearly. This was going better than expected.

Bilbo looked overcome but rallied. “There’s a different way of putting it, you know – that could be a reason to ask me to stay.”

“I couldn't ask you to stay just for my sake.” Thorin was staring straight ahead, steadfastly avoiding the temptation to do so. Having Bilbo inside the mountain, feeling the heartbeat of his beloved as his stone sense mapped the halls of his kingdom, had been an unlooked for happiness since he woke up from his sleep.

Nothing in life was permanent, he had learnt that the hard way. If he had any sense, he would take this chance to make the most of Bilbo's presence.

At last, he was behaving like a king ought to, putting others happiness ahead of his own.

Bilbo's voice brought him back to the present: “Thorin, I – I think there has been a bit of a misunderstanding.” There was something raw in his voice, something unusual for Bilbo who normally mastered his voice like a dwarf would wield his tools, that made Thorin turn to face him again.

Bilbo looked like the lights of Erebor were blazing inside him, like he had achieved his heart's desire. He took Thorin's breath away.

That wasn't new. He had done the same when he was as wet as a dishrag after riding a barrel to escape Mirkwood, but still –

Bilbo was talking to him, so he had better answer.

“A misunderstanding?” was the best Thorin could come up with. His brain seemed to have retired somewhere else.

“Yes! You're telling me I'm your One like it's something I'm expected to know already, yet you seem completely oblivious to – to –”

“To what?” Thorin had given Bilbo a great gift of mithril while in the throes of goldsickness – surely he wasn't looking for something else to confirm what he was to Thorin?

“To the fact that your sentiments are returned, you daft dwarf!” It came pouring out of Bilbo, as if something inside him had sprung loose. “I want to stay here, with you, more than anything!”

Thorin stared at him, at the warm glow of happiness that was illuminating the face of his heart of hearts, and was lost for words.

“I never dared believe you loved me back, that I was anything to you except a friend, but if you're talking about Ones –“ Bilbo went on.

“Yes. Of course I do. Do you not realise what you are to me?” Thorin asked, his voice caught in his throat.

“No. But I'm quite willing to find out.” Bilbo smiled tremulously, as if he couldn't quite believe his good fortune.

Thorin could not let that stand – all good fortune was on his side, and if Bilbo did not already know that he had been gravely at fault.

“You are the other part of my soul, my One, and I will be blessed beyond measure if you will stay. Here. With me. In whatever way you will have me.”

Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes, and Thorin couldn't have stopped himself even if he wanted to:

“I love you. I will keep loving you whether you live here or in the Shire, and I will treasure every letter you send me, every act of kindness or friendship –“

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” Bilbo said as he stepped forward, into Thorin's arms. “Much better. See if you can treasure this, too.”

Then he kissed Thorin, who lost both his breath and his reason, in the best possible way.

“What was it Gandalf said to you, in private?” Bilbo asked.

They were sitting in front of the fire in Thorin's chambers, sharing a pipe. It was much later, after they had discussed the significance of gifts of mithril and hobbit customs like flower crowns and summer weddings, and Thorin truly had started to believe that Bilbo loved him back. He may not understand why or how, but who was he to quibble with this great gift from Mahal?

Thorin had wondered when Bilbo would ask about what Gandalf had told him.

When, not if.

“He explained that the great wizard Saruman had turned to evil, and sent Thuringwethil to check Erebor's power,” he said. “Saruman told both Thranduil and Elrond all was well in Erebor, so Gandalf told me not to blame them for not acting earlier or not telling you that something was amiss. Elrond did think it could not hurt for you to go and see for yourself, however, so he made your way here as smooth as possible.”

Bilbo was shaking; concerned, Thorin turned to see what was going on only to realise his love was laughing.

“And Legolas helped, too, of course. You realise this means you need to be grateful to the elves, right?”

“Regrettably. With you by my side I can bear it, however. Especially since you will be the one dealing with them in the future.”

It was one of the many, many ways Mahal made it clear that Thorin was meant to love Bilbo.